Learning To Die

Mom's last lesson

My mother, Mary Ida Stiler, died on a Friday evening, April 22, 2011, of cardiac arrest. I had just spent time with her a few days prior and, on returning home, mentioned to my wife that I thought the time had come to get Mom into a nursing facility. Although Mom was still pretty sharp, mentally (notwithstanding her daily intake of numerous Vicodin), her body was a wreck. She had no feeling in her feet as a result of neuropathy. She had to use both hands to get a fork to her mouth and suffered from rheumatoid arthritis and synovial cysts under her arms, not to mention severe scoliosis that caused her constant pain despite the drugs. She could still write, though, and did so avidly, penning several letters a day with her crooked hands to friends and relatives and, now and then, shot off a liberal political scorcher to the Portland Press Herald.

So, a life of 89 years and done. She really wanted to celebrate her 90th birthday with the whole family in August. That she didn’t quite make it surprised us all, given her considerable strength of will and love of life. She was a remarkable person with high intelligence and a big heart. She loved the natural world, especially the trees and woods. Mom was passionate about flowers, and her exquisite flower pressings became known far and wide. After she died, while we were cleaning her apartment, I swept up the last of dozens of brightly colored flower petals that had fallen to the floor under her work desk.

When we were young, Mom encouraged the arts, and our house of five siblings was filled with music. We all played instruments, from guitars to flutes to pianos. There was weekly band practice in the cellar, and everything from Fats Domino to Miles Davis to Stravinsky came out of the stereo. Mom’s taste was eclectic, but she loved Beethoven in particular. On one of my last visits with her, the Emperor Concerto came on the radio while we ate dinner (Stouffer’s frozen stuffed peppers). We heard the first few bars, stopped what we were doing, and listened to the whole thing in silence as the apartment grew dark. I am so profoundly grateful for that time with her.

Now, years later, the missing still comes in waves, the countless memories, the urge to pick up the phone and talk about politics or the Red Sox or how one of her heroes, Roger Federer, did against Nadal. Today, while taking a walk in the woods, I passed by a carpet of ferns, which reminded me of Mom. The bittersweet memories and feelings of missing her arose, but along with them, as I stood and observed the ferns, was a quiet presence that would not be denied. In tandem with the missing was a profound inner stillness, both effortless and intensely alive. The stillness held everything, and within it, everything returned to silence. Words here are inadequate, but the familiar sense of grief arose in a background of silence and vanished. It wasn’t a matter of my rejecting or suppressing thoughts. There were tears, but they came and went without attachment to a ‘me’ or ‘my sorrow.’ They simply died a natural death in the silence of unconditional being. In their place was a lovingness that had no source or subject. I have come to know this presence as the true, deep beauty of the world. It is the wild beauty of not knowing, of having absolutely nothing to hold onto.

Even though my mother’s absence often brings an aching sadness, there is also the experience of her death as a gift to everyone. It’s like a doorway where light and love pour into the world, revealing that, no matter what we may think or feel about past and future events, there is only the beauty of this moment. Most mysteriously, to be intimate with death is a precious opportunity to discover that the purpose of this life is to learn to die to every moment. It isn’t something we can make happen, yet it is the only thing that really matters.

For the lesson of my mom’s life and death, I bow my head in gratitude.